“So that’s what happened… hrm,” Rassilon says softly, to the hologram of the bitey mad lady in faded not entirely appropriate blue.
“And this shape, this… shuttle shape? Did you choose it? Or did he?”
A tremor echoes over and through and under and between the bowels of her before she can answer, rocking her ensorcelled molecules as a giant crib, rocked by an unseen, shifting hand.
The shuttle, who is the TARDIS, who is the shuttle, breaks apart at the rhythm of the sudden words, like flour dust. She comes together again, a shadow. Herself. Alone. Without her Thief, but together with the man called Dallyrasse who became Rassilon, of the Triumvirate.
The message that Rose has spoken, will speak, is speaking now.
The TARDIS relays the message to the man called Dallyrasse, stroking the ears of his always-working brain with soft sounds that approximate speech, clicks and whirs and buzzing bits of light and noise.
Just a few letters, really; not even a whole missive. Just four little words with which the man ought to be familiar.
A shadow at Pharos.
That is the message she has received. And now they both have heard it.